


White Horse

by UAgirl



Series: Pretty Things-verse [2]
Category: Passions
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UAgirl/pseuds/UAgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't until the fourth morning that she wakes up praying to the porcelain god that she even starts to suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Horse

**Author's Note:**

> Title: White Horse (spin-off/prequel to Pretty Things)  
> Rating: PG-13, I guess. Somewhere between PG and PG-13.  
> Warnings: infidelity, mentions of past sexual situations  
> Characters/Pairings: Fancy/Luis, Sheridan/Luis  
> Word Count: 2,186  
> Summary: It isn't until the fourth morning that she wakes up praying to the porcelain god that she even starts to suspect.

White Horse

 

 

 

 

I’m not a princess, this ain’t a fairytale

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t occur to her at first: that she could be pregnant, that one night of weakness, a night leading to a morning in which Luis broke her heart all over again, might have resulted in a baby. 

It isn’t until the fourth morning that she wakes up praying to the porcelain god that she even starts to suspect. 

She waits until Marty is at school before she gives into her burning curiosity, driving the extra miles to Castleton to wander through the aisles of a generic drug store aimlessly, only to end up in front of shelf upon shelf of pregnancy tests. Her hand shakes as she tosses several of the small, rectangular boxes into the basket she carries in the crook of her arm, and it shakes still when she hands over the wad of cash to the middle-aged store clerk to pay for her purchases. Gripping the steering wheel hard between her hands in the safety of her own car seems to be her only respite, but it is merely temporary. A long while later, after the miles have passed without her remembering leaving that parking lot, when she lets herself into the cottage, only to come face to face with Pilar, her hands begin to shake again. They shake so violently, she drops the bag in her hands, and she drops to her knees, tears burning at the back of her eyes as she scrambles to recover them, those damned boxes, scattered all over the floor. 

“Mi hija,” Pilar joins her on the floor, muttering her apologies in soft Spanish under her breath, her hands working diligently to help Sheridan while her eyes search her pale face. “You were not answering your phone. Marty forgot his permission slip for the museum, and today was the last day…” she trails off when she realizes Sheridan is not listening to her, that her attention is focused elsewhere. Only then does she shift her own eyes to the small box she is holding in her hands. She can’t contain the gasp that escapes her mouth, and her questions lodge like accusations in her throat, slowly cutting off her supply of oxygen until she feels faint. 

The tears that have been pooling in Sheridan’s eyes finally breach their dam with Pilar’s reaction, and the sob that has been rising in the back of her own throat since that very morning when the impossible turned into a dreaded suspicion is let loose. 

Taking Sheridan’s trembling hands between her own, Pilar is surprised to find her own face wet with tears. “Oh, mi hija,” she murmurs into soft golden hair when her arms wind their way around Sheridan in a mother’s embrace. “Oh, mi hija,” she cries, Marty and the museum forgotten as the minutes meander and the world seems to slow down to that one moment. 

 

~*~

 

I’m not the one you’ll sweep off her feet 

Lead her up the stairwell

This ain’t Hollywood, this is a small town

 

~*~

 

For weeks no one knows her secret except Pilar. 

But Harmony is a small town, and much as she’d like to hide herself away from its prying eyes, the simple distinction of being Marty’s mother (and a Crane, at that) guarantees she won’t succeed with that pipe dream. Drawn helplessly into the fold by the responsibilities and relationships attached to that role, she soon realizes the futility of running away from the truth. In fact, it’s almost a relief when someone else stumbles across it. 

If only that someone else weren’t Fancy. 

The fragile skin beneath Fancy’s blue eyes looks bruised, and her slender frame is almost painfully thin, but it is the pale finger that still wears Luis’s ring that captures Sheridan’s attention. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was…Aunt Sheridan,” Fancy finally looks up.

Sheridan closes her eyes. Months Fancy hasn’t called her that, long months where she lived Sheridan’s dream with the man that had always dominated in the starring role. “Fancy,” she acknowledges, inwardly wincing at the grief she sees lurking in the younger woman’s pale irises. “How are you…Marty says…” 

“I’m fine,” Fancy interrupts her with a lie, her fingers clenching white around the edges of her purse. “My doctor says I’m fine,” she bites out, when Sheridan fails to hide her disbelief. She sets her purse on the edge of the sink and opens it to withdraw her compact as Sheridan watches, and the bathroom door opens and closes, leaving them alone in the crowded space, a muffled female voice outside paging a physician. 

Physically, Sheridan mentally adds, watching Fancy apply makeup to her pretty face in an attempt to hide her dark circles. She swallows down the nausea that led her to duck in here in the first place and wonders should she attribute it to morning sickness or guilt as she regards her own naked hands. Her head jerks up when she realizes Fancy is speaking again, and the bile bubbling at the back of her throat has her reaching for the saltines stashed inside her own purse before she remembers where she’s at and who she’s standing next to. “I’m sorry?” is all she manages with Fancy looking at her askance. 

“Marty left his soccer jersey at the house,” Fancy informs her, snapping her compact shut and placing it back in her purse. “You still seeing that guy, the one that helps coach that Marty likes so much, John?” 

“Josh,” Sheridan automatically corrects, her voice heavy with regret as she remembers their last encounter and the dimming of the bright smile he’d always worn in his attempts to sweep her off her feet until he’d realized nothing more than a white horse would do. She shakes her head and wonders aloud. “Why?” 

“Marty hasn’t mentioned him in a while,” Fancy answers. “And I haven’t been out much, not since…you know what,” she cuts herself off. “It isn’t any of my business.” 

“No,” Sheridan swallows, wills the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach to go away, as the thought runs, unabated, through her mind. It isn’t, only it is. Luis made Josh your business. Just like he made him his. “Things just didn’t work out.” 

“Too bad,” Fancy responds, and she actually sounds sorry. 

“Yeah,” Sheridan agrees in a tight whisper. “Too bad.” Tucking her purse beneath her arm, she finds she can’t meet Fancy’s eyes any longer (if she had, she’d notice her niece was suffering from the same difficulty), and really, there’s not much time before she has to be at the school to pick Marty up and take him on their own adventure to the museum. “Listen, Fancy…I have to…” 

“Go,” Fancy says softly. 

“I’m glad you’re doing okay,” Sheridan tells her, sincerely thankful. Whatever else Fancy is to her, she’ll always be family. She thinks she hears Fancy murmur thank you, but she can’t be sure as she hurries away. 

It isn’t until later, when she’s standing in front of a bronzed plaque extolling Harmony’s place in the history books beside her eager young son, that she remembers the forgotten prenatal vitamins and her stomach knots with worry. 

They leave the museum early. 

Marty’s small hand holds hers the entire trip home.

 

~*~

 

I was a dreamer before you went and let me down

 

~*~

 

He doesn’t come to her right away. 

Not that she expects him to. Expectations like that would be unrealistic.

He isn’t the same man she fell in love with, and she knows she’s changed too. He loves Fancy now, and she knows he won’t walk away from her. That morning proved that. But he’s in her blood, and she’s in his. Marty ties them together forever, and she knows this baby will too. 

If she lets it. 

It’s late, a few days later, when she finds him on her doorstep. Marty is with Pilar, no doubt stirring up mischief with his cousins, and she’s thankful her son isn’t around to witness how broken his parents’ relationship has really become. 

They’re great pretenders, but there’s no one there to see them. 

And Sheridan’s weary of false niceties. When Luis thrusts the small bottle at her by way of greeting and shoulders his way inside, she doesn’t resist him; she closes the door quietly and takes a deep, settling breath. “I thought Fancy would be the one to bring them,” she tells him. “Or Pilar.” 

"It’s true,” Luis breathes out, though he doesn’t turn to face her. “They’re yours? You’re…” his words trail off as his brown eyes seek her out, and unconsciously, his hand reaches for her. 

Closing her eyes to the emotion swimming in those dark eyes that still haunt her every thought, Sheridan confirms his unspoken question with a whisper. “I’m pregnant.” 

“Sheridan.” 

Her name rasps past Luis’s throat, and it sounds like hope and love, always and forever, but it’s a lie of the most painful sort, one well-intentioned, one believed. She feels her heart throbbing in her chest in misery at what she must do, at what’s most clear to her now, when he’s looking at her like he looked at her that night, before guilt and memory whispered Fancy and Josh seemed nothing more than a name she’d seen in a book once. She opens her mouth and tries to sell him her truth, “It’s Josh’s.” 

“No,” Luis shakes his head, brown eyes bright and jaw like granite. 

“It was one time,” she continues. “Before we broke up, before you and I…” 

“You didn’t sleep with him.” 

Luis is directly in front of her now. She can feel the heat from his body, imagine the pounding of his heart. He looks at her with tragic eyes, and she feels anger blossom in her veins even while her heart threatens to split wide because he’s the one that broke her heart, he’s the one that ruined any chance of happiness she might have with another man, a decent and caring man, the night he took her back to bed. Her blue eyes glitter with tears and deception when she speaks. “I lied.” 

“You didn’t sleep with him,” Luis insists, wrapping his hands around her upper arms without thought. “You told me, you promised, you didn’t.” 

Sheridan remembers that promise. Her skin was painted with his scent, and sweat beaded Luis’s brow as he moved within her, her hands clasped tightly in his against the softness of her pillow. He’d wanted promises; she’d only wanted love. In the end, it’d been too much to hope for both. Freeing one of her arms, she lifts a hand to his jaw, and cupping it, says, “I told you what you wanted to hear.” Rubbing her thumb across his lower lip, she murmurs, “You were hurt and angry. The baby was gone, and you thought Josh was going to somehow take Marty away from you. I knew what you were thinking, Luis. I knew. You thought you could take me to bed, and there wouldn’t be anymore Josh, he wouldn’t take your son away from you. I’d still be there, and in the morning, you could go back home to Fancy.” 

Stilling her hand before she can remove it, Luis presses her palm to his mouth and shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t try to deny her. “She needed me. Our baby…” 

Pulling away from him, Sheridan bites her lip and swallows her own selfish feelings. What about your living, breathing son? What about me? But her words are cruel and slicing, however necessary. “He died, Luis, and I know how much you’d like a second chance. But this baby isn’t your second chance. It’s another man’s, if he wants it. And Marty and I…we’ll be just fine,” she tells him, because somehow they will. “But Fancy, your wife, she still needs you,” she says as her hand twists the doorknob and opens the door. “She’s waiting for you, right now.” 

“Sheridan,” Luis resists, lingering in the doorway. “I wish…I wish things were different.” 

“Go home, Luis,” Sheridan pleads, fingertips rising to massage her aching temples. “It’s been a long day,” she sighs, tears threatening to clog her throat, “and I just want to curl up and take a nap before Marty gets home.” 

“I’ll call Mama,” Luis’s eyes are suspiciously red, “make sure she gives you a little extra time.” 

“Luis,” she calls, when he is on the last step and he holds his keys in his palm. Me too, she wants to say, but all that escapes is a soft, “Thank you.” 

“Take care of yourself.” 

Then he is gone, and Sheridan wears a brittle smile as a tear slips down her cheek. By the time Marty bursts through the door, hours later, her tears have all run out. She takes his hand, takes a deep breath, and takes their lives in a whole new direction with only a few words. 

Damn the white horse. 

 

~*~

 

Now it’s too late for you and your white horse to come around

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of stories that explore what was happening with Sheridan/Luis/Fancy while Ethan/Theresa were off living their happy lives with Little Ethan and Jane.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Lyrics are borrowed from a Taylor Swift song, White Horse (yes, I admit it…I like a few of her songs). No infringement intended to her, her co-writers, or anyone else who has rights to the song. I’m not making any profit from this story nor do I intend to (ha). Just wanted to share the source of my inspiration for this story. And, it goes without saying, that I don’t own Passions or any characters recognized therein.***


End file.
